A Leopard Among Jackals
by euphorbic
Summary: In which a young Artemis Entreri kills an important man, delivers a message against his better judgment, meets the Basadoni guild’s bookkeeper and discovers peripherally the difference between harem women and prostitutes.
1. leopard among jackals

_Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer._

_Note: This was spawned by a sentence that claimed Entreri dislikes prostitutes, but spent 'quality time' in harems. It seemed out of character.  
_

_leopard among jackals_

It wasn't that he had made a mistake; never that. The young assassin's information had not been as reliable as he'd come to expect from the Basadoni Cabal's network. Certainly he had his own network, better than any other lieutenant in the dangerous guild, despite the relatively few years he'd had to cultivate it. Both networks had been tapped for his latest assignment.

This was his third kill not asked by the guild itself; Pasha Basadoni had finally decided to profit by hiring the skilled youth out. It wasn't that he had counted on the numbers one of the Sultan's many nephews had provided to be higher than the guild reports had alluded. Nor was it that he hadn't expected the man to be alone: Sawouz was widely known for the exquisitely hedonistic quality of his harem. He had planned everything as meticulously as ever, down to the very moment the guild's two diviners had said another in a string of recent sandstorms would hit the desert city.

There were more guards, though they hadn't been a problem to avoid nor prop up in death when needed. There was extra magical security the Sultan's nephew hadn't mentioned; nothing Basadoni's wizard hadn't equipped him to defeat. The man did not sleep alone, but harem girls certainly weren't a problem, as far as the young killer understood. They weren't the same as Basadoni's; Sawouz did not house a single female relative in the same space as his many young sexual partners. Sawouz was more liberal a merchant than other men the assassin had killed.

The interesting pseudo-problem for Artemis Entreri was the lack of information concerning the man's martial skill. Or, rather, whatever magic he possessed that loaned him such skill. The older man was cutting the air all around the young man, hitting him with more than just the breeze created with his two fine, and possibly magical, scimitars.

Entereri danced around the rapid right and left thrusts that sought to cage and skewer him like a pig in the open market. His eyes, dead but for the spark the fight fueled him, drank in all the information vision could offer him and informed his obsessively detailed mental map of the room. The room's terrain was treacherous between a few dead soldiers and several girls that slept on the floor. He was mindful of a multitude of animal skins with stuffed heads and gaping maws that could cause his undoing even without housing flesh, bone, muscle or sinew.

He continued to rapidly give ground in order to study his opponent's offensive maneuvers. Oddly enough, the brilliant sword play didn't seem to match the man's lackluster footwork. Sawouz was more than twice the young assassin's age and lacked alacrity, but he made up for both in odd skill. The metal tongues of his blades had already licked the hem of Entreri's shirt into tatters and worried at his baggy breeches. Thin ribbons of blood were running down his lean stomach from a few shallow slices across his ribcage. The red fluid soaked silently into the wide black sash that held his sheathed daggers and a few of accoutrements of his trade.

The young assassin had not scored a single hit, nor had he tried, content to watch Sawouz's growing confidence and glee as he 'kept' the younger man on the backpedal. A few cuts on Entreri's stomach had come in the opening salvo. As requested by the Sultan's nephew, he'd alerted the man to his presence to allow him a sporting chance. Other minor cuts had been granted to feed the older man's bloated confidence.

Even if Sawouz did have magically enhanced swordsmanship, Entreri didn't particularly believe the older man's endurance would match. Sawouz's breathing was already coming as rapid as his lethal blade work.

"Oh, I have exhausted the ranks of yet another pasha, have I? So much so that they send skinny boys to do the work of men?" Sawouz chuckled, changing up the rapid right and left thrusts, with a few sweeps high and low in opposite directions.

Even if it had seemed effective, Entreri wasn't impressed by the moves so much as disgusted that it had taken so long for the older man to change his routine.

In reply, Entreri shrugged, totally unconcerned, ducking a scimitar over his head and twisting back around the one anticipating his dodge. "Are you saying you've killed people like this?"

This gave Sawouz pause. The assassin still hadn't drawn his twin daggers and until that point he assumed it was due to his overpowering offensive. The older man's face caught up in an expression somewhere between incredulity and annoyance. "People? You think you have a right to call yourself such, little worm?"

Entreri had the grace to shrug again, despite the blades that were even then boxing him in. He was confident in the man's weaknesses now. The man's skill was not in training, but an outside source. The young assassin had occasionally heard of weapons that might enhance the wielder's skill. The boy considered such tools more deadly for the wielder than any opponent the blade might meet. One might learn to rely on the sword's skill, simply moving along with it rather than appropriately directing. A person would grow weak and reliant on such a sword rather than trusting only in themselves. The fatal flaw of dependence was the least tolerable to Artemis Entreri. The young assassin sneered in severe disgust at the man, thinking him wretched beyond normal means.

Putting his trust in his body and his keen powers of observation, Entreri suddenly increased the pace of his backwards rush toward the one of the chamber's walls. Sawouz laughed, happy to quicken his advance on what he took as a fleeing adversary. He had complete confidence in his two scimitars, both enchanted to increase the skill of their wielder. With only one such blade, the man might have known a little fear when facing a lethally fast devil like the young man before him, but with two such weapons, Sawouz felt invincible. This was his home; there was nothing to fear with the boy about to run himself into a wall. The would-be assassin was going to be forced to stand, fight, and die.

Running out of room wasn't what Entreri had in mind. Just as he was about to be skewered between Sawouz and the wall, the nimble assassin's left foot went high and planted firmly back against the vertical surface.

Sawouz did not foresee Entreri's ingenuity, relying only on his swords' ability to defeat the wiry young man dancing back before him. He certainly did not expect the boy to use his momentum to run several steps backwards up the wall and vault in a curving arc above his head. As the blades directed him, he brought both up in a sweeping motion to protect his suddenly vulnerable head. Unfortunately for him, the blades could not stop the man from slamming into the lacquered tile wall with the force of his forward motion.

In the midst of his flip, head down as his legs curved effortlessly over his body, Entreri snapped his twin daggers into his hands. Using the energy of his flight, he declined the head strike the scimitars would deny him and waited an extra split second, swinging his legs out and down. The force of the maneuver doubled the weight of his strike when his hands simultaneously delivered precision overhand strikes. Both daggers dove below Sawouz' scapulae and deep into his lungs.

When the assassin landed on both feet, his daggers were still sheathed to the hilt in the older man's flesh. The angle might have been awkward for any other fighter, but flexible and intelligent Artemis Entreri knew how to use such situations to his advantage. He transferred the momentum of his leap to the elastic tension in his arms and flung the man backwards over his head.

The daggers ravaged the man's lungs as they slid and caught on the flat plates of his shoulder blades, therein providing Entreri the hold he needed to complete the throw. Though the man was much larger than the young man and much thicker of frame, the energy of Entreri's strike carried him straight overhead and down at the floor. The man had neither presence of mind, nor control, over his locked arms to take advantage of the wide opening the throw offered him.

Sawouz hit the tiled floor head first, breaking his neck and saving him the experience of his collapsing lungs. Thus, at the prince's suggestion, Sawouz was quite dead in a growing pond of spilling blood, leaving Artemis Entreri with a room full of potential witnesses.

He'd never forgotten the double handful of beautiful women sheltering together on the floor and behind furniture. What he would do with them he had yet to decide, though their lack of involvement in the operation boded well for them. They were undeniably beautiful, but he wouldn't let that cloud his head. He reminded himself harshly that beauty had no real value. The not-so-distant call of teenage hormones was a weakness that came with a base animal need to reproduce. The momentary glimpse of his weakness nearly prompted him to kill each one as a lesson to himself.

Fortunately for the women, Entreri did not kill for pleasure, passion, or when not necessary. In their favor, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of Calimshite men that fit Entreri's description. Also, as far as the city of Calimport knew, Entreri did not yet exist: this was only the third killing the man had been hired out to the public on. There were many assassins, though none as young as he, the murder could be blamed on within the city. The women before him, a few beginning to reach for heavy candlesticks vases as he openly considered them, would not know Entreri. They weren't a problem and if they became such, he could take care of each and every one of them far more easily than he had Sawouz.

"Forget me," he commanded in as cold and contemptuous a voice the women had ever heard, "or you will spend your lives with your back to a wall, rather than a bed."

The young man crouched, wiping his blades on Sawouz' long dressing gown before he headed to one of the room's many narrow windows left open to let in the cool night air. The women were stunned to see him melt into the darkness as completely as if he had been made of it all along. Wisely, the young ladies made for the chamber door rather than risk their lives on screams.

The last ashes of the night took in their son as he dropped from the window, straight down to the grapple line he'd attached to an awning frame before entering Sawouz's opulent home. As exact as the assassin aimed to be, it was yet beyond his skill to hit the line with both feet. He felt the rope bite comfortably into one foot, but the other brushed by ineffectively. Both hands slammed daggers home and quickly flew out to seize the line as he swung underneath it.

Had anyone been able to pierce the darkness, they would have remarked on the spider-like grace the young man exhibited as he allowed his body weight to pull the line down and then use the tension to propel himself back up. This time, Entreri landed on both feet. With sure steps other Calimshite assassins would have been pressed to match, the young man flowed away from the scene, crossing to one of many ramshackle buildings near the veritable palace. The fall was a deadly chasm he gave no thought.

One last leap onto the rope gave him the bounce he needed to land on the rundown structure in the least amount of time. His new footing was less secure; the building he'd scouted was as pathetic as any found in Calimport's vast collection of shanty towns. It was his confidence in the give his feet would sense that made him comfortable on the rooftop. That and the multiple times he'd cased the building since Basadoni had sanctioned the work.

Entreri wasted no time unhooking the grapple; he wound it the line as he ran across the building. Soon enough, he was across the building with the rope and grapple slung around his body and his concealing cloak returned to his lithe frame. Over the opposite side of the building he went, skittering along the rough edges of sun-baked brick and mortar. He hit the street and swam into shadows as inky black as the hair brushing his eyes.

People were about in the last precious moments of night's embrace. Calls to prayer were beginning to be sung about the city. Shop keepers were to setting up in the chilly morning's air, before the sun made such work literally murderous. If any of the early risers noticed the young man as he moved through the streets, they did not look twice. Not even the prayer-singers. Entreri especially noticed them, a deep sneer etching his features when he passed beneath their parapets. Apparently their gods had not told them of the imminent sandstorm.

When he finally arrived back at the Basadoni Cabal's credible façade, he slipped into relative security of a different sort. Entreri ever watched his back, perhaps even more so within the guild house, but he was satisfied to leave the dead body and the shuddering witnesses behind him. Though, he mused darkly as he made his way through the guild house on silent feet, he would never rid himself of each and every murder committed. The thought came with a surge of dark satisfaction and frustrated anger he didn't understand and refused to think about.

Knowing Pasha Basadoni expected him, he did not pause to leave his rope and grapple in his quarters nor change out of his slightly bloodied clothing. He promptly found his way to the older man's office. Those he passed bowed out of his way and whispered amongst themselves. Here was the Basadoni Cabal's most powerful lieutenant and perhaps soon Calimport's most deadly assassin. Within the cabal, Entreri had no rivals: he had eliminated or thoroughly converted all. Thieves that did not understand the necessity of an alliance with death did not survive long.

The doors to the pasha's practical office were opened for Entreri as he arrived. Inside, he found the guild's master reading over accounts by bright magical lights the cabal's mage had enchanted. He didn't know what to think of the man. Pasha Basadoni was still the stately gentlemen Entreri remembered from four years prior. The older man was sly, yet even-handed, a shrewd judge of character, and ruthless when crossed.

The young assassin bowed with honest respect when entering the man's presence. No other creature in Calimport, or all Calimshan, received the same gesture from Artemis Entreri. Basadoni pretended to ignore the act, finding some small amusement in teasing the deadly assassin. He was well aware that no other could engage in such dangerous behavior.

"The sons and daughters of Sawouz begin squabbling over the remains today, do they?" His voice was slightly amused, though he continued to peruse a ledger, which Entreri noted was filled with a dizzying array of numbers.

"Yes," the young man replied quietly, standing attentively by the doorway. He wondered that only in Basadoni's presence did he sometimes feel he lacked years or experience. It was strange; he knew he could break the man's neck within two short strides if he desired. There was nothing but gain to be had if he did. Despite his youth, the guild would follow him in Basadoni's absence; not that he wanted such a troublesome burden. And yet, even though he could kill the man, Entreri felt no power over him.

Basadoni adjusted his glasses as looked up from his ledger at last. Clear eyes measured Entreri's appearance at a glance but betrayed no insight.

"Well, then, Artemis, have you brought in foreign blood or is this yours?" Anyone else would be dead before the second syllable of his given name had passed their lips. Again, one of the privileges Pasha Basadoni enjoyed.

"The prince was remiss in many details," Entreri stated blandly by way of explanation, "when he accounted what defenses should be expected."

"Is it not the hired hand's duty to expect information to be faulty and often misleading?" Basadoni's reply was an unnecessary reminder of the common sense laws of assassination. An assassin is hired to do the work the contractor cannot. If the contractor knew all the details, most killers would be out of lucrative work.

"It is and I did," Entreri remarked. "Information on the mark's bodyguards and their skill was available; the mark's was not. In terms of magic, our mage's foresight was effective; I had no problems there."

Basadoni nodded sagely, smiling wryly at the deadly young man before him. "Witnesses?"

Here Entreri paused. He had no intention of lying, but the question was asked in a leading tone. "Nothing more than his harem."

A soft laugh escaped the pasha with the news. He'd half expected the young man to slaughter the girls. Never had such a cold-hearted man been in his employ. A man never swayed by wealth or carnal pursuits; only a desire for fear and respect moved the young man's blades. His curiosity was piqued, for he knew Entreri disliked dealing with Calimports hordes of prostitutes and knew, too, the young man hardly differentiated between them and the sexual side of even more traditional harems.

"All Calimport knows how exceedingly fine a harem Sawouz had," the older man said, seeking to draw a reaction, "and now I know the truth of it. Women so fine that even my hungriest leopard would not slake his thirst for blood on their tender bellies."

"Not so, Pasha," Entreri disagreed immediately, feeling unaccountably wronged. "There was no reason to kill them. None of them were credible witnesses; the light was dim and my features aren't uncommon."

For a long moment, the pasha stared at the young man. It wasn't the first time he considered what a dangerous tool he had taken into his guild. The man's marked lack of desire for sexual gratification was to be admired, but it was also a bizarre manifestation in a youth. He'd given the lad permission to enter his harem two years ago and had only heard of the assassin visiting once and only for a very brief period.

Unlike like other men of Calimport, Basadoni did not think that men without sexual drive weaklings. In his experience, men without such desires developed into powerfully obsessive types; often difficult to control. These men found perverse pleasure in death and had little recognition of human value. In Artemis Entreri, a young man far too wicked for his youth, there was still a guttering flame of humanity left. He'd seen the anger, the mysterious pain, which pushed the assassin inevitably along the razor edge of perfection. Without that flame, he supposed Artemis Entreri would become the kind of man that fell in love with the deaths he administered; the kind of man Basadoni thought better off dead.

"You remain a leopard among jackals, Artemis," Basadoni finally chuckled, noting a brief flicker of confusion in the assassin's gray eyes. He slipped a small square of paper onto the ledger he was perusing and dipped a pen thoughtfully into a nearby inkwell.

Entreri was confused, but was a master of keeping his emotions in check and under wraps. Most of his emotions he didn't bother to acknowledge, making his control all the easier. That didn't keep him from wondering what prompted Basadoni to stare at him before making his cryptic remark.

Searching for a clue, his gaze flicked to the pasha's pen as it descended on the paper. He was disappointed to see the older man write out a pair of letters and numbers in neat Common script. If he'd understood what they meant, he'd have found another reason to appreciate the guild teaching him to read and write more than the native Calimshite he'd learned in Memnon.

Basadoni paused to let the ink dry before offering the slip to his young assassin. "I want you to take this to one of the ladies in the harem. You will find Rashi's rooms opposite a small fountain in the corridor to back and left of the harem common room."

Entreri took the paper without looking at it. For one of those very few times in his life since he'd become a full lieutenant of the city's most powerful guilds, the young man was at a loss. "And then?"

A wave of his hand dismissed Entreri's question; one that seemed to expect an order of death to follow. "Do as you see fit, but be a gentleman about it; the young lady is a valuable asset to the guild."

Mind suddenly whirling with what he suspected the pasha was hinting at, Entreri nodded almost dumbly. If the girl was valuable, it wasn't death on the pasha's mind. And if it wasn't death... Without asking permission he turned around and pushed open the doors he'd arrived through. Noting the break in habit, Basadoni smiled to himself. He didn't expect a sexual liaison to thaw the lad's cold heart, but he thought the human interaction would do the assassin some good.

"Lieutenant Entreri," Basadoni called before the doors closed.

Entreri turned, his face a stern mask. It was almost as if he'd been asked to slay the sultan, rather than deliver a slip of paper. The tension under the young man's skin was unbelievable.

"You won't need the rope where you're going."

In two almost jerky moves, Entreri pulled the rope, with his cloak, over his body and shoved both into the arms of one of Basadoni's door guards, never breaking the pasha's gaze. As the doors shut, ending the unreadable gaze, Pasha Basadoni suddenly wonderedif he was doing one of his favorite women or his principle assassin wrong. With a sigh, he looked back to the ledgers and reminded himself that he knew both well enough to predict a favorable outcome.


	2. higher math

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.

_Note: This chapter started off fun, but when I realized how dysfunctional it would be, the writing (and pace) began to crawl. My working title was 'The Unsexy Harem Chapter', which I hope it lives up to. This is meant to address the discrepancy I mentioned in the first chapter. There's nothing graphic. File this under psychoanalysis. And thanks go to Ariel for looking over most of this chapter.  
_

higher math

It was not very far a walk from Pasha Basadoni's sober office to the magnificent apartments where the harem was housed. The word itself was tantalizing and mysterious, meaning something akin to 'forbidden people.' Within the opulently tiled walls the harem occupied, few expenses were spared on luxury or hedonism.

There were few men alive that would not like to carry a message into the pasha's harem; Artemis Entreri was one of them. He did not find himself eager to walk into the harem with a simple slip of paper with obscure letters held between his index and ring fingers. He had been there before on business and once on an abortive attempt at pleasure dictated by a tormented moment of teenage impulses. Inside one concubine's quarters he'd discovered deeper confusion and a need to conquer he couldn't understand. The resulting encounter had been disastrous. Thankfully he hadn't heard from Basadoni about the incident nor did the women seem to act as if they knew anything about it.

Now it seemed clear Basadoni was offering his young lieutenant another stab at a game Entreri was not well-suited. While the assassin was already something of an expert at disguise and schooled in following courtly intrigue, the young man was not skilled in acts of love. Not that he considered sexual pursuits even remotely connected with love. If love was indeed anything more than a childish story pursued by the greatest fools in the entire Realm.

Not that he cared. His own well-being, and thus Basadoni's goodwill, was the only thing he was interested in. If that meant he had to make a liaison with one of the pasha's favorites work, however briefly, then he would see it done. He knew he was disciplined enough to keep the encounter from weakening his strong will.

As soon as he began to think of the issue as a mission, tension he hadn't even known he felt slipped from his shoulders. His grace was always a deceptively loose flow of controlled muscle, but tension left a faint afterimage of malevolence unconsciously detected by his natural prey: anyone not already dead. Though only a member of the guild for barely four years, all made way before Artemis Entreri.

Before him, flanking the great cypress doors, chased with marvelous designs in gold and silver, were two of the largest toughs the guild had to offer. Neither their impressive size nor their wicked scimitars fazed the young man. Though he stood several heads shorter than the two eunuchs, the older toughs bowed respectfully to the relative youngster. These were neither stupid nor physically slow men; even with arms nearly as thick as Entreri's waist. They had always sensed the budding, and now blossoming, danger within the man. One went so far as to pull the heavy doors ajar to allow the wiry assassin entry.

The scent of the courtyard gardens hit Entreri as he flowed through the door without a break in stride. Plants exotic even to Calimshan lined the courtyard in tasteful arrangements of color and composition. The vegetation threw relaxing aromas into the air while pollen and fluffs of seeds made the atmosphere a soup of fairytale romanticism.

Aquatic species unfolded leaves and petals on the surface of the courtyard's main pools. Jewel-toned fish sparkled in and out of the dappled shade the lily pads offered as respite from the thinly veiled sun overhead. The sand storm outside was not in full force; the fountains still covered the sound of the sand lightly scouring the arcing skylights.

Amongst the lotus and water lilies, several of the pasha's concubines played a frivolous game of hide and seek with the children of Basadoni's wives and favorites. All under the watchful eyes of a red and gold scaled mermaid. Many of the children were the brown-skinned stock of Calimshan, but more than a few sported foreign features; a blond head of hair here, a tapered set of ears there.

Entreri found the scene vaguely nauseating, though he couldn't say why. He found himself condemning every single creature within the room as hopelessly useless, even though he knew Basadoni's harem was not unlike the Sultan's. Something of a traditionalist, the man had selected the women on the basis of what they offered him and the guild. Many of the women of the harem had brought with them valuable skills, education, and ties to powerful families.

Still, Entreri despised them as a menagerie of meaningless pets. They weren't as pathetic as Calimport's many prostitutes and vagrants, he decided, but to gain lives as advisors by virtue of sexual benefits didn't suit the assassin's rigid standards. Anybody could fake their value by taking a strong ally to bed. Just like any fool could augment their social standing by proclaiming themselves a priest of some supposedly goodly god.

As close to anger as he'd been in the last few hours, Entreri banished the unproductive thoughts from his head and walked to the left of what many would find a lyrical tableau.

Many of the women looked to the door when it swung open, but didn't watch the young man as he entered the shadows along the wall, on the opposite side of the marble columns. It was not often they saw men other than the eunuchs and Basadoni, but it was hardly rare. If he had no business with them, it was just as well; the man wasn't entirely unknown to them. None were in a hurry to make the acquaintance of their pasha's principle killer.

Controlled strides brought Entreri through the outer yard's shadows and bore him down a vaulted hallway, no less opulent than the courtyard despite being little more than a corridor to the favorites' personal apartments. Ferns and succulents brought a jungle-like ambience to the hall, which Entreri brushed past until he came abreast of a fountain that fanned out in a sinuous curve from the wall.

Opposite the fountain, encrusted with smooth glass stones, he found the open doorway Basadoni had directed him to. Without hesitation, he stepped through and beyond the small red entryway's array of sheer silks and strands of tiny silver bells into what might have passed as a library in a merchant's home. A grimace came to his face at the tinkling of the chiming bells; Entreri preferred silence to reign in his presence.

The circular room was carpeted in red and painted a sedate eggshell blue where bookshelves permitted. The carpet itself was unusual in Calimshan, a country by and large uncomfortably warm by day and frigid at night. Carpet was an unwanted insulation that soaked up the sound of every footfall. The bookshelves were built into the walls and housed books of many sizes and hues but for several shelves dedicated to uniform tomes all backed in dark red leather and with no lettering embossed on their well used spines.

The furniture was exotic, carved of hardwoods the assassin could not have identified had he a mind to do so. There was an array of musical instruments in glass-faced cases or reaching for the ceiling's crystal fixtures from the floor. Of passing interest to the assassin was a large, unusually thick, rectangle of glass set at an angle on what he took as a writing desk. It seemed to be the sort of thing a wizard would keep.

Also notable in the room, other than the books and thick glass, were several tables inlaid with game boards of strange and familiar designs and drawers that would possibly contain game pieces, were those very pieces not already on top. Many of the boards were set with what Entreri took to be games in progress, others were set in a manner that suggested a new game was about to start.

Of the girl, Rashi, he saw no sign, though he felt a presence in the chamber beyond. He assumed the next room was the girl's bedroom and not a place he wanted to venture immediately. The situation did not need to become more difficult than necessary. He needn't have worried; the lady had heard the sound of the bells in the doorway and had come to greet her visitor.

Entreri noted her surprised expression through her transparent veil when her dark brown eyes registered his presence. Like most young men, Entreri immediately registered the beauty of her form, but violently suppressed any feelings that began to surface in reaction to her beauty. He forced himself to think clinically. He supposed she was desirable by any standards, with almost perfectly symmetrical features, curves that reminded a man of the desert's sinuous sand dunes, and smooth skin the color of Calimshan's distinctive perfumed coffee. Her belted skirts and flowing veils were a bright array in a warm palette that contrasted with her skin and highlighted the tinkling glass beads in her hundreds of thin braids. Her toe-heel steps sang with the scores of bangles adorning her thin ankles as they did from the swing of her wrists.

The woman's attitude was of much more interest to the assassin. Her surprise blended into a curious expression, which did nothing to cover her slight trepidation. Entreri did not believe he'd seen the girl before, nor did he suppose she had ever seen him. If he thought the girls in the harem were capable of separating gossip from facts, he might have found the lack of familiarity promising. Not that facts spoke well of him, either.

Before she could speak a word, Entreri took control of the situation, holding up the slip of paper Basadoni had given him, and advanced toward her. "The pasha sends you a message."

The woman, Rashi, met him halfway across the room, smiling congenially behind her sheer veil, but did not reach for the note he offered her. "He does not often send me notes," she told him, avoiding his direct gaze by ducking her chin in a charming display, "I see things far away much better than up close. Can you read it to me?"

Uncharmed, Entreri absorbed this information with a mental shrug, understanding the need the girl had for the large glass on her writing desk. Glancing down at the paper he read pasha Basadoni's neat script, "KK to 49." It was as cryptic as the moment the stately man had written it down.

The woman reacted with clear understanding. "The sly fox," she murmured thoughtfully, more to herself than for Entreri's benefit. All the same, she smiled at him again and motioned for him to follow her beyond the library ambience, into her bedroom.

Having little clue what the code meant, but suspecting it was some veiled instruction telling her how to proceed with him, Entreri followed the woman. He preferred to avoid identifying her with a name; it would go unnecessarily far in humanizing her. And he hated enough humans already.

The concubine's room was a study in textures, reminding him somewhat of Sawouz's quarters. The floor was swept up in fanciful mosaics that formed swirls of gold, orange, and indigo interlocking swirls on a backdrop of white. The walls were tiled in matte, glossy, and opalescent white tiles, creating a clever illusion of movement as one moved through the room.

Across the room, one of the steaming basins of scented water the house was known for was draped in more sheers and more white; giving the mere illusion of privacy. Her large, canopied bed was given the same treatment, draped in white and sienna sheers that did nothing to disguise the sinuous silver posts, nor the luscious royal blue velvet comforter, pulled back to display white satin sheets.

Beside the bed was another game table, with yet another game in progress. Simple pieces wrought in ivory and onyx sat on a checkered board of the same materials. This, at least, was a game he knew, even if he had not often played it. It was the object of the girl's attention: she went straight to it, bangles jangling and glass beads chiming softly to each other.

He joined her at the board, standing just to the right of the table, rather than in reference to her. The game, he understood, was in a critical stage. When the girl's hand descended on a black horse head piece and moved it forward and to the left, it became apparent the white King was threatened. The only escape Entreri noticed would come with the sacrifice of the white queen.

"Check," the girl breathed, her sigh fluttering the superfluous material covering the lower half of her face. "But not yet check mate."

Seeming to suddenly remember him, she looked over at the assassin again. Truth be told, she knew of him. She'd been a concubine when he'd come into the guild, but not a favorite until recently. He seemed less rowdy than the guild's other lieutenants; she took satisfaction in his quiet demeanor. However, the lack of warmth in his eyes did nothing to put her in mind of the often gentle Basadoni.

Moreover, while she had no fear of being mistreated by the pasha's favorite assassin, she'd heard something of a mishap with one of the other women. According to what little the other would tell her, the youngest of the guild's lieutenants was controlling and obviously bereft of much experience. As Rashi considered the source, she could see the young man's mistake. It was not wise to seriously attempt to dominate the lady in question; she was valued for being a spitfire, a fighter. The encounter could only have devolved into barely constrained contempt on both parts. Anything else was left to her imagination.

Sensing her gaze, but giving her nothing to read, the young killer stared silently at the board a few moments longer. Was there significance in the move? Was this a message to the girl? Basadoni's knight to take, in chess terms, the girl's queen? Or was it simply the most logical step for the pasha to take to win the game? He found he didn't care. All he wanted was to get the coming incident out of the way with as little fuss as possible.

He knew his prior mistake had been to approach the girl with the only experience he knew. Experience that was no more kind than it was gentle or subtle. He'd hated the situation profoundly. Perhaps the greater part of the problem was that he hated anybody who would allow themselves to receive such gross conduct. Despite the value of the Pasha's goodwill, he supposed the only reason he'd never returned to kill the other girl was that she had, indeed, violently rejected his advance.

Seeking, as always, to take action rather than tie himself up with what he considered half-baked introspection, he snapped his gray-eyed gaze up from the board and skewered the pasha's favorite. "Is it your move or mine?"

A shudder ran up her spine with the cold intensity of his ironclad stare. Rashi knew better than to make the mistakes her fellow concubine had. Instead she ran several calculations through her mind. Several scenarios resulted; many of which she threw away. It was obvious what the pasha intended, but she was uncertain she could really succeed. How did one seduce a man that gave away nothing of his intentions? Perhaps the lieutenant was merely emotionless, rather than hard to read. She reminded herself that the pasha wouldn't give her a puzzle he didn't think she would like or couldn't solve. The approaches to the problem were only limited by her own ingenuity, not the assassin's studiously blank slate.

"Mine," she smiled, hoping the question was an indication that he was willing to grant her a bit of lead. Perhaps he had learned since his only known encounter in the harem. Forging ahead, she gestured in the vague direction of the deep basin of scented water. "Please allow me to help remove the dust of your journey."

Remembering where he had recently come back from, Entreri followed her suggestion, heading silently for the heated basin of water. Not only were his clothes dusty and torn, he had shallow wounds that needed cleaning lest they fester. The removal of his tattered tunic filled no seductive function, but Rashi admired the trim lines of his body anyway. She'd never actually seen such a fine body beyond the black and white pages of an anatomy book she'd borrowed from the harem's resident physician. Of course, none of the illustrations from that book had included cuts crisscrossing a fine young body. The cuts did not surprise her when she considered his dangerous profession.

Her own movements were calculated to be beautiful and seductive as she pulled the sheer drapes from the scented basin of steaming water. Her efforts were lost on the assassin, but without any indication from him, she continued in the same manner. She clipped the sheers back, leaning over the high basin in a movement calculated to highlight her long legs and shapely posterior.

At first, Entreri did not catch on to her motivation. For a moment he found himself staring blankly at the girl's backside. When he recognized his slip, obviously dictated by his gender and adolescence, a heated snarl came to his mind. He tightened his focus with the discipline that had seemed less challenging when he was new to the guild, and forced him to be more interested in scanning his wounds.

When she turned back, he was removing his high boots, paying her little mind. Another sigh rustled her veil in slight exasperation; he had proven immune to what most considered her best feature. For a moment she wondered if the assassin preferred men. Having little understanding of such things, she supposed it could explain the brusqueness he'd shown the other girl. Rashi dismissed the thought when she considered Pasha Basadoni; the man wouldn't send her such a person. If he'd sent Artemis Entreri with the note, there was only one thing to do about it.

"It will be more effective if you step in," she said quietly, trying out a more submissive role. If he liked to be controlling, she could try that route. "If you would Master…?"

He fixed her with another stare as he set both boots aside. "Entreri." Didn't she know who he was? Or was she being polite? Again he raked his eyes over her, taking in her subservient attitude and the underlying confusion that hovered around her. Perhaps, he mused, she was new and didn't know how to handle a man? The thought was deeply disturbing, even if Entreri didn't want to think why.

Favoring action over more self-defeating thoughts, Entreri removed his curving daggers, stripped off his wide black sash and baggy breaches before stepping into the basin. He gave little thought to his nakedness; a finely trained and disciplined body was dangerous clothed or not. Besides, he affirmed, watching the girl reach for a hand towel as he knelt within the warm water, she had yet to make a truly threatening move.

Rashi moved slowly, respecting the young man's constrained power. She felt a little like she was about to groom a hungry desert cat. With steady hands, she sank the towel into the warm water near his left elbow and waited a moment while the fabric soaked. When she lifted the cloth, heavy with water, and carefully pressed it against his arm, she detected the slightest narrowing of his cold gray eyes. As soon as she saw no other reaction was forthcoming, she began washing away the dust and muddy stripes of blood from his attractive body.

For his part, Entreri concentrated on the ambience of the room. The windows kept out the rising blasts of scouring sand, while allowing in somber beige light. Water drops could still be heard beneath the wind. They made concentric ripples on the mostly still surface of the water as they fell. Faintly, the girl's bangles and beads clinked against one another and the porcelain bath. He imagined he could here her breathing, soft in concentration and precarious in his presence.

He looked down at her progress when she began to clean his minor wounds. It felt familiar. Unbidden, a memory surfaced to trouble him. Almost half his life ago, there was another woman who had washed him, had cleaned wounds a child was not meant to suffer. She had not been an unattractive woman, nor was she particularly strong. That vague recollection of a woman was something of a survivor. Had she not known when it was most advantageous for her well-being to let a child be broken? Didn't she know when to pick up the pieces in order for them to be scattered again?

Under Rashi's hands, the assassin's muscles tensed. No fool, she leaned back from him to wait for his instructions. It wasn't easy dealing with people that expected her to know what they wanted. Her inner exasperation and the slow erosion of her confidence was fast leading her to be unthinkably blunt with the man.

It took him barely a moment to dismiss the thoughts that brought him such consternation. He did so with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. It was an action that allowed Rashi to see that a man did indeed exist below the surface of taut muscle, wiry sinew, and scarred skin. His human action gave her confidence in speaking to him again.

"Master Entreri," she began, though nearly faltered when his eyes again rested on her, "You are one of the pasha's most trusted lieutenants. I am one of his favorites. I gain nothing in failing my duties to you and you gain nothing in not aiding me."

The assassin continued to stare at her blandly, not really interested in whatever entreaty was forthcoming. "What aid do you need from me?"

"My value comes from problem-solving," she stated as politely as her considerable skills would allow, "not mind reading. I don't know what you want; I only know that whatever it is, I should follow."

He kept a sneer off his face and out of his voice as he replied, "Shouldn't your valued problem-solving skills suggest a solution?"

If she wasn't mistaken, the man was shifting blame onto her head rather than his own. It was hardly something she expected from anyone who would come to her under the same circumstances.

"Astute observation, Master Entreri," she commented blithely. "My problem-solving skills suggest I define the problem. The equation, properly understood, is such: party B wishes party E to relax with party R. The problem lies in defining party E in relation to party R. On the very few occasions I've had to work with this sort of problem, I usually go with R plus X solves for relaxation. If we replace X with E in this equation, it may be solved the same way. However, if E is a negative value, which I'm beginning to suspect, the problem becomes more complex."

The dissertation made him wonder if she was also valued for numerological divinations. For that matter, he'd never actually met both guild diviners. A bit of grudging respect, not terribly much, informed his flat response. "I know what the pasha intended when he sent me here…" He paused, struggling with impulses he couldn't separate from a tangle of pride, disgust, desire, and torment. "He doesn't intend for me to kill or hurt you. The problem, properly defined, is to keep the equation from becoming zero sum."

"I think we can keep that from happening," Rashi replied wringing out her hand towel with a calculated lack of concern, "with some creative mathematics. May I continue?"

At his guarded nod, she again plunged the hand towel into the heated water and lifted it to scrub the taut lines of his collar and the planes of his chest. His response was not what she had imagined, but it fit what little character he had revealed. If she had to guess, the young man didn't have much experience with women and was far too proud to admit it.

It wasn't difficult to gather why the lieutenant would have a deficit in sexual knowledge. He'd come into the guild as an attractive lad of few years, from streets filled with all manner of defeated and perverse people. A boy like him would have been hard pressed to avoid being forced into prostitution. For that matter, she sighed, perhaps he'd been the subject of worse. There were many horrors a homeless child would meet out on the harsh streets of Calimport.

It was then the obvious hit Rashi like the proverbial bag of bricks: she was likely fully ten years the young man's elder! One would never guess by his demeanor; he hid his age behind cold gray eyes.

The smooth hands running over his skin seemed paradoxical to Entreri. Under her direction, the hand towel traversed his skin, leaving swaths of clean skin in its wake. Skin that felt far more sensitive to the girl's touch than he could easily explain. He felt flush and he felt nauseous: both pleasant and sick. Try as he might, he could not rein in the strange combination of sensation infusing his body. This was not the touch of a mother, nor the touch— he put the thought out of his mind.

Entreri was used to controlling every situation he came into; it was his best defense against a world bent on snubbing out any foolish enough to commit the smallest error. Errors of ignorance, judgment, and innocence were equally damning and were perceived by the young man with equal amounts of contempt. Unfortunately, the contempt he had for those errors was negligible in comparison to the damning disgust he felt when they influence over him.

Her touch traveled down his chest to his ribs and stomach, removing dust and blood, leaving more of the nauseous desire in its wake. His throat was constricting even as his temperature was rising. He didn't want to lose himself to lust. He didn't want to lose the internal empire he'd built in the last nine years.

Very slowly, with pinpoint precision, Entreri lifted his left hand from the water and reached toward the girl's closest bangled wrist. She saw his movement clearly, but rather than avoid his grasp, she moved her wrist directly into his grip. Perhaps this was something, she mused, the two of them could act on.

When his fingers closed around her thin wrist, trapping many of her bracelets against her skin with a series of flat clinks, Rashi began to doubt her choice. His grip was not painful, but neither was it gentle. Would he act on the impulses of a murderer, like he had with the other concubine? Had she gone too far without realizing it?

Entreri gritted his teeth against explosive rage. He was having trouble addressing an unprecedented amount of pressure. The old festering pain that forever ate away at the deepest part of who he was supplied the poisonous outburst seething through his veins. Rationally, he had a superficial understanding that the girl was not seeking to exert control over him. It was the irrational rage of a wounded animal that wanted to choke the life out of the woman for touching a wound stretching into a soul grown gangrenous.

Concentrating on a twofold goal was the only way he was able to endure the woman encroaching on broken ground. With her help, he would learn what he needed to control the conflicting surges of lust and revulsion. Additionally, there wasn't the inconsiderable fact that a portion of pride, shattered by the horror of his early life, might be cobbled together. On an unconscious level, he didn't want the preponderance of his sexual experience to be dominated by men, especially not the men he'd worked hard to erase from his mind. Here was another, possibly more effective way, to wipe them away.

"You don't know what to do with me because I don't know what you should do," the man stated in the too calm voice Rashi recognized as that of a person choosing their words very carefully.

Entreri felt he was losing his hold on the situation, but with his hand around the woman's wrist, there was some semblance of control. He knew he could break her thin wrist a thousand different ways. With two quick jerks, he could reduce most of the little bones to powder. With a simple twist, he could force her to the floor and make her beg for release from the pain. Still, his pride, battered and confused as it was, made it very difficult to get the next words out of his mouth. "I have no relevant experience."

Despite having surmised as much moments previous, she was stunned by the admission. Most men would be ashamed to admit they had little experience with women, but the young man before her didn't operate under the same misinformed sense of societal shame. His mannerisms had established him as someone that did not let society build his outlook. With his attitude of fiercely cold independence, she could only assume his admission of weakness cost him dearly.

Doing her best to embody inoffensive grace, Rashi placed her dark elbows on the white basin's rounded lip and rested her chin in the folded nest of her hands. "I can share relevant experience with you," she said calmly, her beads again tapping against the basin and each other with her movement. Holding his gaze for a moment with her expressive eyes, she caught the material of her veil between her thumbs and tugged it until it pooled on the basin's edge and then slipped freely onto the surface of the water, "Perhaps you'll use that experience for a good purpose, but I suspect not."

In what he took as a stable environment with a woman he decided to look at as, for his mental welfare, a valuable mentor, Entreri read her intention and allowed himself to take the bait. He did not release his hold on her wrist, but it loosened to an almost gentle grip. Slowly, he drifted to the side, where she waited with calm serenity. This he'd seen on many occasions and had no doubt he could perform properly. It disturbed him to think that the last person he had willingly kissed was... on the other side of the Calimshan desert.

He left her no doubt, as his lips pressed somewhat stiffly against hers, that she couldn't expect a killer to be a natural kisser. When he released her lip, she nodded sagely. "I can work with that."

Her comment didn't soothe his deep rooted anger, but he didn't let his temper take control, either. He was beginning to see the difference between the girls in Basadoni's harem and the different kinds of men and women on the street. The street workers, even the high-paid ones, had given up the fight and sold their souls for things of little worth. The harem girls retained life and pride in their other work, taking no shame in the sexual side expected of them.

By comparison, Entreri took pride in selling his soul for abilities that would help him gain absolute independence. It was pride, he decided, that separated the animals on the street from the skilled labor in a harem. It was all about self respect. Perhaps he would never see sensuality as anything other than a weakness or weapon, but he was damned if he would forever let it dominate him.

Her bracelets chimed when his strong fingers uncurled from her wrist. "It seems I am convinced of your creative mathematics."

She bowed her head, taking the compliment as the rare manifestation it was. "My other skills may not be as creative," she sighed, drumming up what little desire she could, "but if you follow my lead, we might not be left with a deficit."


	3. cages

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.

_Note: If you were expecting a continuation of the previous chapter's scene, you may be disappointed. My goal was to write in an erotic setting, but to evoke none of the eroticism. It was harder than I imagined and I now realize it didn't work very well.  
_

_cages_

The domed ceiling of the main room was expansive and elegant on a grand scale. The interior was lit by a massive chandelier comprised of an arrangement of fanciful glass curls and hanging crystal drops. It was a cunning metaphor of a shimmering cloud frozen in the beginnings of a rainstorm. It sparkled with light reflected from the cerulean panels surrounding it and, in turn, cast rainbows on the concave panels that gave the dome its awe-inspiring character.

Designed to cast light down rather than up on the reflective surface of the ceiling, the chandelier efficiently illuminated the vast interior of the room. The entire circumference of the great circular room was awash in wealth. The floors were exquisite hardwoods thrown with intricately designed silk carpets, most likely hand-knotted locally in Calimport or Memnon. The walls were tiled in expensive lacquered panels, mother of pearl, and tasteful marble veneer. The hundreds of alcoves set into the walls were given the same decadent treatment, to prevent their appearance from breaking up the scene. Within each alcove were treasures any member of Calimport's down-trodden lower class could have sold and used to live comfortably for the rest of their miserable existence or to purchase for him the death of a dangerous enemy.

The doors to the room were equally grand. More than twice as tall as the men guarding them, they were constructed of hardwood banded with iron and set with golden curls reminiscent of the chandelier above. On either side of the great doors stood guards, smartly outfitted in black from their close-fitting turbans to their slightly pointed boots. They wore no scabbards for their massive scimitars, which were equally fine as any other treasure in the room. The curved swords had obvious magical attributes, for with the size of the blade such weapons would need large pommels to properly balance them, but none were present.

Fittingly, the women housed in the room were each in their own right as amazingly pleasing to the eyes as any treasure. They sat together drinking a fragrant tea cunningly shaped into bulbs that bloomed into flowers when steaming water was poured over them. Their evening discussion ran the gamut of politics, intrigue, and literature, often with a catty sense of wit most Calimshite bards would find intimidating.

Socially and mentally, the stunningly attractive women of the prince's harem were anything but defenseless. Moreover, their eunuch guardsmen, well-trained and expensively equipped, were not mental slouches. It had taken cheating as skilled as could be found in any halfling gambling den to strip one of the men of a week's wages. Wages the women obviously had no use for, but could tease the man with regardless.

Despite their mental prowess, none of the occupants of the harem had noticed their dangerous observer. A man, grown a year or two older and wiser, perched in silent contemplation in one of the room's many alcoves. No expression tempted his handsome features as he continued watching the women in the room. He found it ironic that many of the women were familiar to him. It appeared that after Sawouz had bled and died, the ladies of his harem had been taken in by the merciful man that had paid for Sawouz's death in the first place.

Entreri distantly approved the ladies their pragmatism, even if his respect hadn't greatly increased in regard to their way of life. In his dark profession the assassin usually saw purely hedonistic harems rather than traditional ones. Over the last two years of his life he'd ceased to really be affected by what he saw within them. Exposure had led to a certain understanding and a comfortable lack of disturbing emotion. He knew what to expect from himself and from the women. The siren call of the opposite gender no longer inspired anger born of pain and confusion. With such a difficult mission on his plate, the assassin was glad he'd taken care of potential confusions.

He'd spent a month casing the palace kept by one of the sultan's many nephews. He'd consulted his network, purchased additional information at the cost of spilled blood and blackmail, but trusted his personal observations far more than any other resource. The job was, beyond a doubt, the climb up from a plateau of work that had lost its challenge.

For the month he'd spent laying the groundwork for the assassination, Entreri had felt more alive than usual. There was life on the razor edge of total devastation. The man was not as reckless as he'd been as a teen, but still enjoyed the view of the waiting abyss from the dizzying heights. One mistake and destruction would hungrily claim him.

But the depths would never have him; Artemis Entreri simply did not think that way. There was only one perfect path under his feet, anything else was void.

Gaining entry into the room had been the most difficult part of the job and combined several elements of traditional infiltration. Entreri didn't mind putting together a plan that seemed routine, he was more concerned with results than style. Slipping into the outer shell of the palace had been easy enough. Between his skills at hiding in the long shadows offered by morning light and his talent at assuming the effective composure and body language of a member of the household staff, Entreri had gained entry into ring after ring of the palace's inner workings. The last few layers of infiltration had been excruciatingly pure works of stealth and subterfuge.

He'd taken to the shadows, darting from window frames to the minute purchases offered by lintels and hallway moldings. In the outer halls leading to corridors that would lead to the harem doors, he'd opted to follow a high ranking staff member at a close distance. Thanks in part to his small size and adaptive body language, none of the guards questioned his presence nor did the staff member notice him as the assassin had ingeniously kept himself in the man's blind spot.

The final breach he owed to the prince's eye for architecture and wealth. The double doors, at least as thick as a full grown man, were tall enough that the assassin, working the shadows and lintels as ever, had only needed to wait for the doors to be opened. When the palace staff had arrived with the magnificent breakfast the harem was afforded, the doors were opened by carefully alert eunuchs within and without. He'd slipped under the top of the rounded door frame and up on the other side, quickly finding a hiding place in a convenient alcove above the door.

That had been hours ago. Since then, he'd moved from alcove to alcove, an unnoticed shadow of inevitable death, until he'd gained a location convenient to the part of the room that looked the most comfortable for the occupants. His position was still part of the wall and the room was undeniably spacious. From all appearances he would have to make a tremendous leap and hit the ground running if things went badly. Of course, Entreri had known that since perusing the room's layout two weeks prior. He didn't plan things to go badly. According to his carefully formed picture, the prince would come in, lose himself to pleasures, and the assassin would take things from there.

In the meantime he continually studied the room and the structure of the relationships evidenced by the blissfully unaware harem women below him. Safe in their gilded cage, the ladies had little compunction about where their conversations led them. Entreri found the usual useful information bandied casually in inner circles he could put to future use. Unbidden thoughts slipped into his as he observed; he wondered how the two concubines he was familiar with from Basadoni's harem would fit in to the gathering.

Frowning severely at his slip in discipline, Entreri closed the thought down, contained it, and jettisoned any related impulses from his mind. He hadn't seen or heard anything about the guild's far-sighted bookkeeper in months as it was.

The great doors at the west end of the room opened within the expected timeframe, heralding the approach of Entreri's mark. The man dressed the part of royalty. Gold threads were shot through his exquisitely cut and embroidered clothing, enhancing the atmosphere of wealth the man already projected. His bright blue eyes, set in a face lined with the marks of shrewd calculation and underneath black slashes of plucked eyebrows, gleamed with crafty intelligence. His mustache was exquisitely groomed, brushed up in the fashion popular for generations. The steps he took were trained in the walk of a man born and groomed for command and respect.

As he moved within the room, the ladies of the harem stood as one and ran to greet him, sinking to their knees in a semi circle around him when he halted. It seemed to Entreri that he paused only to allow them a moment to pretend to worship him. If he hadn't been working, his disgust would have been complete. Basadoni's women never acted in such a humiliating way.

The assassin studied the prince's tight gaze as it swept over the adoring assembly, dissecting the man's level of security. Entreri was satisfied to note the prince's gaze was confined to the women and not the other, many, symbols of status contained in the room. The prince, who was no stranger to hiring killers, felt safe indeed.

The prince seemed pleased with what he saw; a smile lifted the corners of his mustache in satisfaction. Suddenly, but not unexpectedly, he brought his hands together in two quick motions that sounded across the room in sharp reports. The assassin's jaw clenched in involuntary annoyance at the sound, but it was hardly a noticeable reaction, ensconced as he was in the shadows. In a much more ostentatious display, the beautiful women all reacted by breaking ranks and racing for various musical instruments.

In no time at all, the room was resounding with lively music and vibrating ever-so-slightly with the energetic dancing of the prince's harem. Only two women did not join the dance, sing, or fetch musical instruments. Instead, these two begged the prince to come sit with them in such a familiar manner Entreri could only assume it was a nightly event.

The sultan's nephew made a show of protesting, but allowed himself to be pulled to a heap of comfortable pillows where a low table laden with brandy, candied fruits and almonds waited. The man settled in to liberally partake of the alcohol and the amazing visions the women offered him.

Entreri watched closely, studying the way the scene's ambience affected his mark. The assassin was wary of watching some targets too closely, concerned they would be sensitive to eyes upon them. With the prince, Entreri was not overly worried; the man was pierced with calculating eyes nearly every hour of every day and had undoubtedly grown immune to the feeling.

The evening wore on with the expected results. The prince was grew drunk on the vices his birthright afforded him. Between the alcohol and the sinuous sway of feminine bodies, he was fast growing hungry for other forms of entertainment. By Entreri's estimate, for there were no timepieces within the harem, it was full night outside when the sultan's nephew took a few of the girls and reclined in the area the assassin had expected. On cue, the guards within the room stepped out to afford their employer's escapades the desired privacy.

Entreri found it vaguely amusing that as pampered as women in non-traditional harems were, most of their keepers didn't provide them beds. Instead mountains of silk pillows and tasseled throws were their fare. Beds, the assassin mused, would probably infringe on the room's dedication to spontaneous acts of stupidity. With dispassionate gray eyes, the assassin watched the displays of imaginative depravity that unfolded beneath his perch and waited patiently.

The other members of the harem had drifted to the opposite side of the room, not wishing to have their sleep disturbed by the routine. One by one, they made themselves comfortable and dropped off to sleep, far enough away that the assassin was certain they would not cause him any problems. The only women he thought could be troublesome were those entertaining their keeper.

It was quite late when the action below the killer ceased and one of the women intoned a few words to dispel the chandelier's illumination to a dim glow. Entreri began to monitor their breathing for signs of deep sleep. He'd learned nothing if not patience and a sense of timing in the years since he'd arrived in Calimport. Both served him with pinpoint precision as he absorbed the new ambience and setting blanketing the room.

Forty-five minutes after the prince and his immediate attendants had fallen asleep, the darkest shadow in the room began to move. He slid a blackened steel blade out of its sheath and up to be gripped in his teeth. Entreri felt no sense of anxiety or nervousness as he melted down the wall and skimmed the floor on the way to the tangle of sleeping people. A month of careful preparation, an hour of penetrating a palace's security, and a day of patient stillness narrowed down to a mere moment that held the fate of many in the balance. No fan of fate, Entreri did not give a moment's thought to how his next action would again shape the girls' lives. All he allowed himself was a sliver of amusement at the irony of the repeated event.

As hushed as his own shadow, Entreri circled the group. Singling out the prince from the rest of the bodies was easy enough, though his skin was just as smooth as the women's in some places. Befitting the man's superior attitude, his head and shoulders were clearly above the women, who clung lazily to his waist. The assassin frowned at one girl, formerly of Sawouz's harem, for using the prince's chest as a pillow. She could be a problem. Crouching above the man's head, the assassin studied the girl and the prince's arms.

Relying on his instincts and observations of the prince in order to mimic his actions, Entreri reached out and laid a hand on the naked girl's shoulder and pushed slowly until her upper body twisted aside, her back reclining fully on the cushions beside her. Not one of the group had changed their breathing dramatically as a result of his action; a development that prompted the assassin to take the blade from his teeth and palm a pillow.

So much preparation for one second of perfectly executed action.

The pillow settled over the man's face in almost gentle fashion, in stark and hideous contrast to the blade that simultaneously spiked down with perfect force, to cleanly skewer the man's heart.

As expected, the man jerked once, disturbing his sleeping companions. Entreri made no move, waiting to see if the situation would pan out the way he expected. With no noise and no further struggle from their prince, the ladies lying with him snuggled back into his still warm body and went back to their sleep.

No feeling of elation swept the assassin as his hand left the dagger and lifted the noise-smothering pillow. He'd taken care of the mark, but he still had to remove himself from the area without leaving any evidence beyond the blade. The dagger wouldn't be noticeable at first glance, equipped as it was with a small horizontal hilt. It would be easier to cover than a small tower of vertical hilt. The pillow descended again, neatly covering the dagger and soaking up any blood that might leak out of the wound. Plugged as the hole was, Entreri didn't anticipate a growing pool of moisture to awaken the girls pressed against the body.

With the stealth that was his hallmark, Entreri crossed the room toward the double doors that had never left his attention. According to the meticulous timetables he'd run through his mind time and again, there would be a changing of the eunuch guards within the next fifteen minutes. It was his best opportunity of escape unless he still wanted to be in the room when the sultan's nephew was discovered dead. The back up plan was to kill the guards before the women previously in Sawouz's harem could identify him. He doubted it would be necessary to go that route, but the ruthless assassin was a man always ready to adapt his plans to changing situations. The women could also be slain, if they recognized him this time, but he didn't want to resort to such unprofessional sloppiness unless absolutely necessary.

No articles of wealth swayed Entreri as he ascended the wall and maneuvered himself above the doors' curving framework. Artemis Entreri did not kill for wealth anymore than he killed for passion. He used his deadly skill for his own benefit; carving out a kingdom of one. The spoil he most desired was complete independence, bought with fear and respect and financed by the perfect skills the sale of his soul had made possible. Wealth only stood as a mark of worth to the rest of society. In Entreri's view, his worth was marked by the outside world in how much he charged for his services. Services that would fetch double the price hitherto demanded after his escape.

The guards did not disappoint Entreri's sense of timing. The door opened as scheduled, allowing the assassin his avenue of escape. In his professionalism, he still did not take pleasure in the precarious exit, only concentrated on working his way down the length of the corridor's shadows. The way out wasn't always easier than the way in, but the difference was greatly significant. Entreri's route in had taken place in the amber light of morning; one of the least likely moments to expect infiltration. In contrast, his escape was taking place in the middle of the might, the time ruled by Calimport's ne'er-do-wells.

It took him half the time to let himself out as the windows were locked from the inside. He could have opened one in no time from the outside; it took an instant to unlock it from the inside. The window expedited the escape process even though detail-oriented Entreri took a moment to lock the window behind him.

Despite the impeccable skills that had fast vaulted him to the top of his profession, Entreri knew climbing up the outside of the palace would have been nigh impossible. The climb would have left him weary and he couldn't leap i up /i from level to level as effectively as he could drop down. Inevitably, he would have been noticed and picked off by an arrow or crossbow bolt, perhaps even been reduced to a blackened smudge by a wizard's fireball. Gravity would work against him.

With the situation reversed, gravity was stacking the odds in his favor. He slipped from surface to surface under cover of a cloud-covered moon. He dropped from each level on feet as silent as any cat's. And he twisted around iron fencing and glass-topped walls as easily as any snake, often avoiding the nests of birds that could become unintentional alarms along the impressive structure.

Many hours before dawn would kiss the night sky until it flushed crimson, Entreri was off the walls of the palatial structure and in the broken down alleys. He noted with derision that he was more at home in the desolate side streets, stinking of a vile combination of death, urine, and refuse, than within the incense-scented halls of the building he was leaving behind him. It wouldn't matter how often he was contacted to do work within rich settings; to him it was all a veneer to cover the world's insurmountable supply of weakness and falsehood.

The poverty-stricken, in Entreri's opinion, were more honest about their position, though he held no amount of sympathy for the wretches. Perhaps they had started at nothing, but Entreri hadn't even had the luxury of familiarity with his surroundings when he'd hit Calimport. As far as he was concerned, he wouldn't waste spit on any of the dehydrated beggars sleeping listlessly in the alleys.

His journey to the guild house took time, located as it was on the opposite side of the city. Most of the trip was spent creating as winding and confusing path as possible. He purposely cut through rival guild territory, never fearing reprisal; his reputation was firmly established by the Basadoni cabal and was growing everyday. However, it was not the Basadoni guild house he was headed for.

When he at last appeared before his destination, a building as run-down in appearance on the outside as it was rich on the inside, he noted a plethora of homeless hanging around the front. He would have known at a glance the derelicts outside were skilled combatants, even if he hadn't expected them. They knew him, but were not expecting him to come calling. A few shifted nervously, whispering to each other as he approached. One of them slipped quickly into the building as Entreri came to a halt before them.

"You're not expected," one of the pretenders told him, voice rough with nervousness he didn't mean to show.

The assassin didn't even glance his way, content to wait for the return of the guard that was playing messenger. "Your pasha must indeed be rich if he pays you to state the obvious."

The comment had the intended effect of silencing the guildsman, who frowned furiously, but did not return the intended slight. Nobody wanted to anger a killer on his way up the deadly ranks of his profession.

In less time than the assassin or guards would have thought possible, the messenger returned and motioned Entreri forward. "Come with me."

Smiling without humor, Entreri followed the woman in, watching his back as he went. As a visitor to the guild, most people could expect to be blindfolded when making a call. The first time the assassin had come, they had tried to do subject him to the same treatment. Several broken wrists were on the mend since then. He'd made it perfectly clear he would not submit to anyone touching his person in any way.

This visit was substantially easier. The thief leading him was more a chaperone than a guide and she didn't bother making the trip unnecessarily complicated. There was no straight way to their destination; her pasha's meeting hall was only accessible by going down several floors before heading up again. The seasoned thief was doing her best to make the round about route as direct as possible while keeping a furtive eye on the dangerous assassin.

Outside the pasha's meeting hall Entreri saw the usual guards, inside the room he saw the usual wealth, but none of the exotic hunting cats nor the man himself were present. When he walked in, he found himself alone. Standing solitary in the room was vaguely uncomfortable to the assassin; it was his habit to enter into known quantities or to lay in wait for his victims. It was his supreme confidence in his growing abilities that kept him from feeling exposed.

A tapestry behind the pasha's granite dais folded under a fleshy hand as Pasha Pook moved it aside to facilitate his entry into the room. Though he was well-groomed, his eyes were tinged red and his expression was clearly irritated. Entreri could guess why; Pook was a man proficient in enjoying the many spoils his sharp faculties brought into the guild. It was likely he had a late night not unlike that the late prince had known. Except Pook was alive and the prince was not.

Pasha Pook thrust himself into his chair, fixing the assassin with an irate glare that bordered on childish petulance. At first he said nothing, only gripped the head of a panther statue beside his chair. Entreri said nothing, content to let the pasha play his little waiting game. The assassin knew and appreciated the power of silence.

"You could not come at a decent hour?" The man finally spat, fingers digging into the statue's ruby eyes.

Nonplussed, Entreri played the waiting game a few beats longer, reminding the pasha that he was a ranking member of one of the most powerful guilds in the city. "I see I've mistaken the value of a personal visit."

Pook ignored the retort; he both knew Entreri wouldn't use an intermediary on a job of such magnitude. A personal visit didn't make up for the ungodly hour. Still grumpy with his early wake-up call, he went on to business. "It is done?"

Artemis Entreri did not bow to the pasha and his nod was so abbreviated it hardly stirred a hair on his head. Only one man warranted the assassin's elusive respect and Pook, no matter how successful his guild, would never warrant half that in the assassin's eyes. "I have no other reason to be here. You may send the second half of the payment to the appropriate account with my guild. At that time our business will be concluded."

The pasha smiled absently, infractions suddenly forgotten. He smoothed his fingers down the gilded pelt of the panther statue flanking his chair. Entreri was young, but harder to read than ruffians twice his age. "Are you so eager to leave, Master Entreri?"

Pook's playful attitude wasn't winning him the assassin's goodwill. The man was causing a faint sense of revulsion to bubble up from within Entreri. His reply was clothed in a dangerous quiet voice. "Are you eager to keep me?"

The wily pasha nodded knowingly, gauging the assassin's reactions and choice of words. He knew it wasn't wise to play games with dangerous people before their motivations were quantified, no matter how young they appeared. "I know you for a man that respects a straightforward approach, so I will be frank with you. My guild could use someone like you; money's no object for a man with your skill."

"I wonder how Pasha Basadoni will take your intention to poach his most trusted lieutenant?" The offer wasn't the first Entreri had heard, but it was coming from one of the wealthiest pashas in Calimport. He knew, too, that there would soon be even more interest, as long as the city's other hired killers weren't foolish enough to claim the hit. Entreri himself would not claim the hit, either, but his silence on the subject would speak more eloquently than any boasting.

"Everyone knows my fondness for big cats, Entreri. How can I resist trying to acquire Pasha Basadoni's most deadly leopard? A leopard among jackals, he calls you. There are great assassins within Calimport, Entreri, but none with your pure discipline and dedication. You are the rare genuine article."

Entreri stared hard at the pasha. Compliments and flattery were not unknown to him; they usually accompanied outlandish requests and pleas for mercy. He ignored them equally. "Do you understand the amount Pasha Basadoni allots for my retainer?"

The response pleased Pook greatly; the assassin was clearly indicating his allegiance could, indeed, be bought. "I understand that this guild can triple it," he chuckled dismissively. "But I hardly expect you to make a quick decision, Master Entreri. Take your time, let the rumors of your prowess circulate. More offers will come, but none will equal mine. Like Artemis Entreri, this guild is ascending and if he is identified with its ascent, his reputation and prestige will grow in ways Basadoni cannot offer."

"You're saying I will always be overshadowed by my guild's longstanding success." Entreri didn't disagree with this view. It was a logical extrapolation of events and it was exactly the right tactic to take with the young assassin. Pasha Pook was every bit the wily speaker people on the streets said he was.

"We both know that kingdoms can be built in the shadows," Pook began, taking great pleasure in the play of words and images, "but few of worth are built within the shadow of a shadow."

Word play wasn't of interest to Entreri unless he was using it to intimidate an opponent. His response was typical in its flatness. "I prefer to have a platform from which to conduct my business. If I find yours the most advantageous, I will contact you."

Pook smile turned indulgent. His mood had started off on the foul side with the assassin's obscenely early visit, but had quickly shot into level after level of satisfaction. The prince was dead, freeing up his harem for pilfering, and the brilliant young assassin that had carried out the mission could very well be his. The day was starting off beautifully.

"Ah," the pasha sighed, "I do have one more request for you, Master Entreri, for which I will pay handsomely."

Entreri cocked his head slightly, indicating his sudden and very intense interest. If the pasha had another equally as difficult target, the assassin was keen to hear about it.

"I understand Basadoni had a lovely diviner by the name of Rashili," Pook said, unaware of the twinge of confusion he was inspiring in the assassin's mind with his use of the past tense. "I hear she left his…employ. Since she is no longer a part of the guild, it wouldn't be a problem for you to locate her, would it?"

If he weren't used to disregarding his emotions, subtle confusion might well have made it to his face. The only name he'd ever heard resembling the one Pook mentioned belonged to Basadoni's bookkeeper. He'd heard nothing of her departure and wouldn't expect to; anyone as steeped in the guild's finances would not be allowed to leave. The only way she would leave the guild would be as a corpse.

Switching mental gears, he asked himself why Pook wanted to know her whereabouts. Why would he want her? To add her to his harem? He doubted she would go willingly; the woman wasn't likely Pook's type. Due to her connection to his guild, he saw more reasons to ask Pook's motivation than not. "I won't involve myself until I know your motivations and speak to my guild master."

"I suspected no less," Pook answered immediately, always ready to be accommodating when it came to something he wanted. "As you know, I'm an acquisitive man. Years ago I lost an opportunity to acquire this girl. Pasha Basadoni slyly slipped her out from under my nose. It was a loss born of a foolish mistake and one I'd like to rectify."

The assassin was tempted to shrug the issue away dismissively. He was struck with an impulse to affirm he had no connection to the woman. She'd been a tutor in an area he needed education and he had been studious keeping any weakness for the woman from developing. What did he care where she ended up?

"I'll speak to Pasha Basadoni," he replied with typical cold efficiency and a minute nod to indicate he was ready to leave. He'd been awake for the span of a full day and night and he wanted to get away before it affected him. Young and vibrantly healthy, Entreri didn't need much sleep; he only took enough to remain in perfect mental condition.

His chaperone walked beside him, nervous of putting her back to the assassin. She had no idea he barely saw her. Entreri was committing as much of the building's layout to memory as possible while considering the issue of a possibly wayward favorite. There was little doubt in Entreri's mind, if Rashi had left the guild, whether she was a favorite or not, she was either dead or soon would be.

Pook sat thinking after the assassin turned and let himself out. He leaned back in his chair, petting the gold statue again. There was little doubt he would eventually pull Entreri into the guild; the young man was a slave to good sense.


	4. epilogue

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.

_Note: This came from the interesting fact that the human brain loses capacity for creative math after the age of twenty-eight. I didn't think of this until after I'd arbitrarily decided our diviner's age._

_safety in numbers_

Among all the nations Rashi had visited there was a common phrase that, until recently, had never ceased to amuse her. While being schooled she and her classmates never missed an opportunity to use the phrase to illustrate their choice of learning. Early in her divination career, she'd nearly forgotten the original use of the saying.

As she sat within a boisterous taproom with a bevy of tribal desert travelers, the phrase again reinserted itself in her head: there is safety in numbers. The laughter once attributed to the words was not easily forgotten; it came to her now as the ironic well-meaning advice of friends long beloved and long left behind. Like others before her, she had believed she would only grow in her creative skills, never to be cut off from the thing that kept her happy and useful.

The plastered walls enclosing the smoky main room were clear to her vision, but her eyes did not focus on them as she thought. She had not been cut off from her beloved numbers, rather, she had felt her sharp mind begin to lose their effortless flow. She could still perform mind-boggling calculations and spill out bewitching equations, but the creative impulses that were the true magic of the art were fading. The intuitive leaps of logic began to fade a year prior and were now becoming as distant as her vision. There was no telling where the decline in her creative math would end.

Losing the edge on her hadn't affected Rashi's ability to cook the Basadoni Cabal's books, but it turned what had once been an amusing pastime into a constant reminder of her future. Her skills at divining would not be flawless for long. For the first time in her life, Rashi had found herself uncertain of what was to come and what she wanted to do.

There was no safety without numbers.

The texture of the voices sounding and rebounding around the room caught her attention for a moment. She sighed and looked around her crowded table at the men and women through the hem of her banded head scarf. Like her, they were swathed in the usual flowing and concealing garb ideal for desert travel. A few were even merchants from Shaar, whom she would be traveling with, thanks to their hospitality and her gift of persuasion. It was easy to spot them with their dark skin and pale garb; a detail that came as a disadvantage in her situation.

Despite the sulphur-yellow light permeating the beige room's rough interior, she could not see the closest of the myriad faces clearly, especially not the two young men flanking her. She could tell what the crowd's relative ages were by their voices and gestures as they drank, smoked their pipes, and conversed among themselves. Her conclusions convinced her she had made another miscalculation. One of them was supposed to be a killer, but none moved with the body language she had grown to recognize. Her divinations were losing greater detail by the week.

Sighing, she reached for her colorful glass of Calishite coffee, and was shocked and horrified to find a hand already grasping it. A slight gasp betrayed her shock at her mistake as she quickly withdrew her hand.

"My apologies," she laughed, quickly regaining her wits and sense of humor, "Really, old women and their eyesight! I thought that was my drink! I'll try to keep my hands to myself from now on."

The young man's shoulders moved in what she assumed was a shrug. "No, it is your drink."

Her fine black eyebrows rose in further surprise at the gruff response. Why anyone would knowingly have their hand on her drink was a mystery to Rashi; unless he was looking to flirt. A catlike smile pulled her lips up in an intrigued expression. No matter what the man looked like or what his attitude, Rashi enjoyed the game and she felt she sorely needed whatever amusement she could find.

"This isn't a good way to start a conversation, sir. You should have taken issue with how I disparaged my age. So far you've stolen my drink and lost an opportunity to compliment me. What can I expect next? A creative apology or excuse, I hope."

There was a lengthy pause before the man responded and when he did, the veil of gruffness left his voice. "Beauty is rarely worthy of compliment and deserters unworthy of conversation."

Rashi's smile was frozen on her face as she flushed with horrified comprehension. An unexpected shudder took possession of her spine and rattled her soundly from neck to hips. Here he was: death had intercepted her, had even anticipated her arrival. Her calculations proved correct after all, but she took no comfort in the knowledge.

Woodenly, her mouth formed crude sounds she hardly believed she could deliver under the horrible circumstances. "You aren't the type to waste breath on a deserter; what are you here for?"

She was right, of course, he wasn't the type to waste breath on a mark: in her fear the significance of the fact was lost on her. "Information," he replied bluntly, without feeling. "Would you rather your rented room or outside?"

A stranger to life on the run, Rashi returned immediately to the only real advice she knew. "Can we stay right here?"

"I didn't offer that option," he commented quietly, without a hint of compassion entering his voice. "Even if I was incapable of killing you in the midst of this crowd, they would leave eventually. And if somehow one of these people decided to help you, they would die delaying the inevitable."

If it had been any other killer, Rashi would never have backed down; she would have attacked him on the spot and died with the satisfaction of at least giving him a few claw marks for his trouble. But she knew this man, had witnessed on several intimate occasions his nearly inhuman reflexes and incredible mastery of body. Rashi closed her eyes and bowed her head and refused to cry. It was hard, very hard, to reconcile the situation to her idea of reality: none of her calculations had hinted that Pasha Basadoni would resort to this level of hateful cruelty. He had sent the killer to her initially, knowing she would find him fascinating.

"Outside, then," she murmured. She had no desire to be responsible for any life but her own.

He stood in response to her words, dropping a firm hand on her slender shoulder as he did. "Don't take long."

Rashi nodded, feeling more warmth from the palm of his hand than his demeanor.

When he walked away, she took up the glass of coffee and considered it as carefully as her poor vision allowed. On an impulse, she drained it down to the grounds and then asked in a voice raised to invite attention, "Does anybody here read coffee grounds?"

One of the older men at her table raised his hand and waved her over. She heard, more than saw, his hand pat the table before him, rattling a metal plate before him. "Come up-end your glass here on the plate. If the reading is good, you can buy it. If it is bad, I won't expect anything."

A feeble smirk came onto her face as she swished through the crowd to the gentleman. He had a kind face, with a neatly trimmed beard and intelligent hazel eyes, which she noted before she moved too close to see them. With the short walk around the table came a return of circulation she had not realized had slowed. Disgust at her fear rose within her and ignited her pride and self respect; she was not going to act like a victim. She'd made her choice and she knew the possible consequences.

Holding her head high, the diviner and former Basadoni bookkeeper brought up her glass and swung her arm in an arc. The glass slammed onto the older man's metal dish with a terrific report. The action rang in her mind as an echo of what a killer might perform when plunging a dagger into a victim, only with none of the silence. The comparison did not trouble her as much as she expected.

She did not see the coffee-reader jump slightly at her unorthodox rendering of the coffee grounds or the startled reactions of those closest to them. As bad as her vision was at close range, the bearded man's look of puzzled consternation was also denied her. The violence of the act had knocked every single ground to the plate, leaving none on the glass for reading. He'd never seen anything like it and found himself at a loss as to how to interpret what he found. He pulled at his beard thoughtfully before speaking.

"Well," the man said hesitantly, trying to give the mound of fragrant coffee grounds meaning, "I think fate is offering you a chance to build your own destiny. I advise you to act boldly, but temper your action with wisdom."

Beside him a woman, probably his wife, snorted loudly. "You expect her to pay for _that_?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know if it is good or bad. You can pay me, if you discover it was good."

Rashi nodded to the man, taking his advice to heart. "That sounds fair to me. I'll find out soon enough."

The diviner walked out into the dusty haze of what could be her last sunset. The sun was melting across the distant sand dunes in undulating bands of rust, burnt umber, and rose. It was hard to tell where the earth gave way to sky; a lovely last vision, she mused. Resolute strides took her from the building to find the Basadoni Cabal's lieutenant.

She didn't have long to look; he was waiting for her in the shadows the building cast. His presence was only apparent once he stepped from the darkness into the rich orange light of the setting sun. If his eyes weren't flat and lifeless, she would have found him quite fetching in the romantic color and angle of the day's last illumination.

His long shadowslithered up her body as he drew near. Rashi watched the morbid sight until she realized that he was purposely coming to her from an angle that put the sun in her eyes. He stopped far enough away that his compact frame did not block the sun from her already disadvantaged sight. Rashi was frightened, but her indignation gave her the courage she needed to step toward the man and take ironic shelter in his shadow.

"You could have escaped to Pook," Entreri began without preamble and in his customary uninflected tone.

How he knew Pook had an interest in her wasn't important enough to concern her. Rashi smirked humorlessly in response; the killer had no obvious understanding of her motives. "I wouldn't want to die under those circumstances. I have more respect for myself than that."

Surprisingly, Entreri assumed a thoughtful expression and nodded. "I knew that of you. Did your lack of independence finally wear on you?"

Rashi's mouth fell open to answer, but closed again in confusion. Had Basadoni not given his lieutenant her letter of explanation where she had clearly and respectfully explained her reasons for leaving? Was the cool, professional assassin showing personal interest? Was this his way of paying back the debt of her mentoring?

"I thought you knew," she admitted, "especially in the context of conversations we had over the years. I have been losing my ability as a problem solver; as a diviner. It would be as if you lost your precious reflexes. What then would you do?"

The cold, flat, surfaces of his eyes flickered as he read her demeanor while she spoke the words. He noted the direction her eyes drifted and decoded the unconscious way she moved. All the cues pointed to a truthful response he could understand, even if he did not empathize.

For an assortment of moments, Entreri stood watching the woman he believed he'd resisted emotionally for the greater part of two years. Any warm feelings he had for her wouldn't be acknowledged whether he had them or not. He certainly wasn't the type to search for them.

His unspoken question had been answered swiftly. There was no way he could address the question without losing his own self respect. Subconsciously, he had wanted to know why she left; for no better reason than a sense of curiosity. Anything else was too dangerous to contemplate. Mission accomplished, he nodded curtly and tucked a loose end of his turban up to conceal his face again. He turned away from her and began to walk away, taking his shadow with him.

The assassin's reaction to her words stunned Rashi profoundly; she was ready to die with dignity and her killer was going to play cat and mouse games? Her frown was harsh on her fine features.

"Where are you going?" She demanded, beginning to storm toward his retreating figure. If Basadoni was going to send this man, of all men, to kill her then it would be done the way she wanted.

"Calimport," he stated, not looking over his shoulder.

The blunt response, so typical of him, stopped her in her tracks. Was he—was _he_ letting her go? "You mean you're not here to--?"

His reply remained indirect, but leading. "You yet draw breath, don't you?"

And yet, Rashi was certain somebody would be sent to fetch or kill her. "Another?"

A cold smile appeared on his face, hidden by the head gear he wore as comfortably as a desert nomad. Her quick wits had secured his respect from the first and would keep it until the last. He stopped and turned back toward her, considering what he could tell her without betraying his allegiance to Basadoni. If he wasn't careful, the situation could fall under the heading of a conflict of interests; a prospect Entreri found utterly abhorrent.

"Yes," he stated, without elaborating.

"Then why did Basadoni send you?"

_He didn't._ The obvious answer came to the forefront of Entreri's mind but he did not vocalize it. It wouldn't be the wisest course of action, considering his continued efforts to keep himself from admitting to himself that his reasons for being there weren't necessarily professional. The mission Pasha Pook had offered him had not been accepted and he was determined to accept it only if he needed it as a scapegoat. Until he found himself backed into a corner, he told himself he was really there to consider the job.

Picking his words carefully, Entreri leapt ahead of the conversation, leaving her question unanswered. "Your hunter will give you a chance to return to Calimport. If you don't take it, you will die."

His answer wasn't something Rashi couldn't figure out for herself. A scowl creased her forehead between her eyebrows as she considered the man. She was smart enough to know that sex didn't equal affection in the assassin's eyes, but it didn't seem impossible that he might feel he owed her for those first few lessons. What had he ever done for her? Except, she admitted to herself, remain a fascinating mystery with a name that didn't accurately reveal his personality whether graphed in Calimshite or her native numerology.

His name. A name. All she wanted was a fighting chance, and it was within his power to provide it. "You aren't here to help me, but could you at least advise me? Tell me the name of my pursuer, nothing more. Not because you owe me, because no debt was ever acknowledged between us. Tell me to even up the admittedly slim odds."

The look he gave her was pure and absolute ice, given in place of emotion and with the appropriate flat gaze of his iron gray eyes. It was more than the look of a man made into a weapon, but one that hinted at a deep-rooted issue that had little to no chance of ever being broached. It was a look that horrified the failing diviner, but she refused to back down; she was no wishy-washy girl, in need of moral support. She was her own woman and she was satisfied to die that way.

When she did not turn away from his hard gaze, his eyes narrowed and the energy between them intensified. She was determined not to look away; he was several paces from her, giving her poor vision satisfactory access to his stare. It wasn't a contest of wills, for Rashi knew she could not win such a fight with an unfeeling man. From what she knew of him, he was testing her resolve and tenacity.

Just as she felt her eyes to begin to tear up from dryness in their dusty surroundings, Entreri began to speak with quiet venom. "You are a fool if you can't figure this problem out for yourself. If Basadoni did not send me, he would obviously not send another man. Considering the information you possess, he would not send the contract out of the organization. How many female assassins are there within the guild?"

Even in the face of his condescending verbal attack, Rashi did not back down nor did she jump to defend herself. His name-calling meant nothing to her: he was complying. He was giving her the information she needed to increase her odds of survival.

"Only one as far as I know," she responded coolly, "but I don't know her whole name."

As Entreri saw it, there were two options. He could walk away and Rashi would be captured or killed without causing her hunter undue stress; this was by far the cleanest and most uncomplicated option. Or he could raise the level of difficulty by pitting the former concubine's failing divining skill against her hunter's ability to adapt unpredictable methods.

It was an annoying prospect to feel an affinity for the latter option, especially when he considered the trouble that came with it. Association with the second option brought the question of impartiality back into the situation. Was there a conflict of interests? Had she somehow instilled a weakness in him?

Imperceptibly, Entreri's muscles tensed as if in preparation for a kill. No, he was not weak; he could kill or maim her if necessary. There was no conflict of interests; he was perfectly neutral. If the girl's hunter couldn't defeat a former concubine armed only with a flagging skill that would not lend her physical aid, then that hunter deserved to taste defeat.

"Kali Nivasi," he stated definitively. He did not wait to see the girl's reaction to the answer. Turning away again and began putting distance between them; he would learn of the outcome eventually. And if the former favorite managed to elude Nivasi, then there was always old man Basadoni's principle assassin; provided he did not soon transfer loyalty to Pook's guild. One never knew for a certainty with Artemis Entreri.

This time Rashi did not call out to him to stop. No thought of chasing him down came into her head nor did she consider trying to make her thanks known. Lifting a corner of her headscarf, she covered her sensual lips and mouthed the words that would make him regret helping her if he heard them. "Thank you, Artemis."

Graphing and running numbers through her mind, Rashili made her way back to the taproom to pay the coffee ground reader.

_

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My personal thanks to Ariel, Neven, and Silverwolf for their reviews at this site._


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